


things not seen with eyes

by elentari7



Series: Enchantments and Desolations [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, POV Multiple, Part-human / magical creature rights activists, who are also teen wizards and frequently not very good at this whole feelings thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6739429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elentari7/pseuds/elentari7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new year at Hogwarts brings NEWTs, future prospects (or lack thereof), and changing relationships to grapple with. Sequel to <em>no surprise more magical</em>, which for the sake of making sense the author recommends you read first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 (Éponine)

Éponine wasn’t sure what to expect from sixth year. There were a lot of variables.

There were NEWTs, of course. She’d gotten high enough marks on all her OWLs to take every NEWT that might potentially help her get any sort of job, which sounded like _so much_ fun. There was the countdown to her seventeenth birthday, and freedom. There was the fact that Montparnasse had graduated--no more having to deal with whatever the hell he thought he felt about her. But there were also no more people she ever spoke to left in her own House, besides Azelma.

(She and Azelma had talked, during the summer. And they’d talked when Éponine had taken them shopping for used textbooks in Diagon Alley, while their parents were off in who knew what shady corner and Gavroche was off...stealing ice cream, probably. It counted.)

Perhaps the _most_ destabilizing variable, though, was the number of people to talk to Éponine now had outside of her House. She didn't know what to expect from seeing them again. She didn't know if it would feel any different. After all, they’d hardly let her forget their existence for the few months she hadn’t seen them, what with the chattering and the postcards and the embarrassing photographs, none of which she’d in any way taken out and reread multiple times every few days. Gav had whined about her not letting him look, but kept his promise not to tell anyone else about her owl-less correspondence. If Azelma found out, their parents would find out, and Éponine didn’t know what her parents would do if they knew she was in communication with Cosette. It was an even split between taking out old grudges on Éponine and trying to blackmail Valjean, again.

Talking to Cosette was another unsettling variable. Éponine was so used to starting a school year with the intention of avoiding her.

As it turned out, she didn’t even get the opportunity, since Cosette and company found her almost as soon as she got separated from Azelma on Platform 9 ¾. By “company,” Éponine meant Marius and Courfeyrac. Mostly Courfeyrac. The other two were distracted.

“Ponine!” he cried, waving her over so frantically he was in danger of whacking the oblivious, starstruck couple upside the head. Éponine felt a sinking in her stomach at the sight of them--how were they still so doe-eyed and fairy-tale with each other?--but not enough to keep her from joining them.

“I’m here. You can stop before you put someone’s eye out,” she informed Courfeyrac.

He sighed and dropped his hand. “I’m not sure they’d notice, at the moment.”

“We can hear you,” Cosette said, turning away from a dopily grinning Marius. She smiled at Éponine. “Hi, it’s good to see you again.”

She took a step forward, and then the smallest of pauses--testing the water--before hugging Éponine. Éponine blinked.

“You too,” she said, after Cosette had moved away. She scrambled for a way to make the moment less weird, though maybe it was only weird to her. Marius certainly wasn’t aware of why anything might be awkward. “It’s good to see all of you.” That was a good, not-weird, true thing to say. “Seen any of the others yet?”

“E and Ferre are staking out a compartment,” Courfeyrac said, hands hovering like he also wanted to greet her with a hug, but wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. Was there some queue to hug her she hadn’t known about? “By which I mean we dumped our luggage in there and they are so deep in catch-up on all that furious political debate they couldn’t have over the summer that no one will dare go in. I’m rounding people up.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you,” Cosette said, apologetic. She was blushing now.

Marius looked, predictably, devastated. “Why not?”

More blushing. “All the new prefects are supposed to go to orientation with the Head Boy and Girl.” Prefect. Éponine didn’t know why she was surprised.

“Aw, yes!” Courfeyrac crowed, scooping Cosette off the ground in a hug. Good thing he hadn’t tried that on Éponine, after all. It looked...nice, but she might have kneed him in the groin just out of shock. “Welcome to our exalted ranks, young Fauchelevent.”

“I assume you’re skipping out, though,” Cosette said, poking him in the ribs until he put her down. “Shirking your duties on the first day of term, Mr. Courfeyrac? Can I penalize you for that?”

“Where’s your respect for seniority?” Courfeyrac waved a dismissive hand. “By my observation, nothing actually happens in the prefects’ compartments after fifth year except sitting around together, pretending the shiny badges make you cool. Elitist tradition, that.”

“‘Exalted ranks,’” Éponine coughed. Cosette laughed.

Éponine was surprised at how not-irritated she felt by this. Maybe it had just been too long since she made anyone but Gavroche laugh.

“Well, I have to go do my part in that elitist tradition,” Cosette said, and kissed Marius on the cheek. “I left Father up at the front, and I promised I wouldn’t miss the train if I went off on my own. He’ll get anxious if I’m not back with at least ten minutes to spare.”

“Clearly your father has no appreciation for a dramatic exit,” Courfeyrac sighed.

Cosette poked him in the ribs again with the hand that wasn’t entwined with Marius’. “Say hello to the others for me.” She flashed Éponine a last smile before turning to go.

“Good luck!” Marius called after her.

He kept gazing in the direction she’d gone long after she’d disappeared into the crowd. Courfeyrac seemed to consider this excellent entertainment.

Éponine waited a generous few seconds. “If you guys are done…”

“Right! Rounding people up.” Courfeyrac clapped his hands loud enough that strangers jumped and looked around. “Compartment’s down that way. Shall we?”

“Let’s.” Éponine fell into step beside him, and Marius scrambled to keep close to his other side.

“How was your summer, ’Ponine?” he asked as they walked. “We didn’t hear from you much.”

It took her a moment to answer. She should be able to handle this by now, she thought. But she’d been avoiding the thought of talking to Marius face-to-face again; she wasn’t prepared.

“Fine,” she said. “Nothing much happened.”

“You were home with your family, right?” His eyes were as earnest as ever.

Family was something Marius missed. Éponine did not want to talk about hers. “Yeah.”

It was strange, given...everything, that it felt harder to talk to Marius than to Cosette. Maybe it was because Cosette would have known not to ask that particular question. Maybe it was because--no matter how furiously she stomped on it--the odd flutter in her chest that had appeared last year was as susceptible as ever to Marius smiling at her.

She looked away.

And stopped in her tracks.

“Is that…” Éponine squinted, though it really wasn’t necessary. They weren’t being inconspicuous. “Is that Prouvaire?”

Courfeyrac turned around, and burst out laughing.

“Hello!” Prouvaire waved at them over the crowd, one hand in Bahorel’s hair to keep his balance on his teammate’s shoulders. He tapped Bahorel on the head. “Forward and left,” he called, as though relaying orders on the battlefield.

The crowd parted before Bahorel, who was dragging both his and Prouvaire’s trunks (with broomsticks strapped on) behind him and ignoring the looks and curses thrown his way. “Hey guys! What’s up?”

“Besides Prouvaire?” Courfeyrac asked, before doubling over laughing again. Marius put a tentative, concerned hand on his friend’s quaking shoulder.

“We wanted to find people.” Prouvaire shrugged. “It’s easier from up here.”

“Considered using the broomsticks,” Bahorel added, “but that’d probably get them confiscated.” He sounded distinctly disgruntled about this.

“Sad but true.” Prouvaire patted Bahorel’s head consolingly as he scanned the crowd. “I see Bossuet!”

“How can you tell?” Bahorel asked, craning his neck as much as possible without dropping his friend. “Is he falling over something?”

“No, his head’s all shiny.”

“ _Still_?”

Bossuet had managed not to fall over anything by the time they got to him, but his Splinched hair had indeed decided never to grow back. He didn’t look bothered. In all likelihood, Éponine thought fondly, it wasn’t even the unluckiest thing to have happened to him. Distracted by Joly’s characteristic gesticulating, Bossuet didn’t notice them approaching, and she thought it best to warn him, given the accident waiting to happen that was Prouvaire perched atop Bahorel. “Hey, Lesgle.”

Bossuet almost did trip over his trunk turning around to face them, but Joly caught him with the ease of habit. “Hi guys!” Joly said.

“I am really glad,” Bossuet said, “to see all of you, but you two stay right where you are. I refuse to get squashed today.”

“Does that mean you’d be fine with it on other days?” Musichetta said, coming up behind her boyfriends. She slung an arm around Joly and kissed Bossuet on the cheek. “Because that might be a problem, _tesoro_. I like you in one piece, and not-pancaked.”

“Agreed,” Joly chimed in, one arm now around Musichetta’s waist, cheeks pink, expression absurdly pleased with himself.

“Missed you too,” Bossuet teased, letting her flick his ear in reply.

“ _Ciao_ , Nerocchi.” Courfeyrac swept a bow. Éponine wondered where he found the _energy_ to keep up this level of ridiculousness. “How’d you find us?”

“Followed the redhead.” Musichetta waved at Prouvaire, who waved back.

“I told you this made things easier.” His gaze caught on someone in the crowd. “Oh look, it’s an R.”

“R!” Éponine had barely located Grantaire before he went down under an armful of Joly. Musichetta caught Joly’s cane as it went flying. A solid half-minute of aggressive hugging ensued.

“Breathing is important, _c_ _aro_ ,” Musichetta reminded her boyfriend at last.

Joly straightened up immediately, releasing Grantaire’s ribcage and holding him at arm’s length. Grantaire’s hands dropped from where they’d been hovering over Joly’s shoulders. “How are you?” Joly demanded, giving his friend a clinical once-over.

“Great to see you too, Jolllly,” Grantaire drawled. But he was smiling.

“If you’re not feeling well, you have to _tell_ me.”

“Yeah, he’s officially our doctor-in-training now,” Musichetta smirked.

“Also,” Bossuet said, slinging an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, “we care.”

Joly nodded vigorously, while Musichetta stepped forward to insinuate herself into the group hug with a smile. Grantaire blinked. His eyes had bags under them, Éponine noticed. His hands twitched, but didn’t decide on a direction to move.

“Oooh, are we doing group hugs?” Courfeyrac bounced on the balls of his feet, cracking his knuckles and throwing his arms wide. Grantaire shot him a look of probably-feigned despair.

“The Devil’s Snare threesome is enough for one man, thanks.”

“Nahhhhh,” Bahorel rumbled, lumbering forward. Prouvaire tottered on his shoulders, and Bossuet jumped back.

“Whoa, no no no, bad idea, I can’t die the first day seventh year, I’m _so close_ \--”

Prouvaire stopped Bahorel with a tug on his hair. He leaned over precariously to pluck at the red knit hat crammed onto Grantaire’s head. “New look, R?”

A typical, crooked, sardonic smile. “Rejoice in your victory, Prouvaire. I’ve joined the ranks of the dress code rebels. And the people too lazy to wash their hair.”

Prouvaire tucked a ribbon of immaculate red hair behind his ear, and patted the top of Grantaire’s head. “You look beautiful, dear.”

Grantaire eyed Bahorel and Prouvaire--accessorized with a bright salmon tie (to match his pants) and a currently-turquoise feather boa, respectively--up and down. “Thanks, man.” His smile didn’t drop, though.

 ---

Taking shameless advantage of Bahorel and Prouvaire’s ability to clear a path in the crowd, the whole group piled in through the nearest door of the train, Bossuet maneuvering his luggage aboard via wandless levitation--“Safer that way”--and Prouvaire diving through the doorway from Bahorel’s shoulders. It wasn’t as graceful as they had hoped. Bossuet was still laughing at them when they reached their compartment at the far end of the train car.

The scene in the compartment was so stereotypical of the people involved that Éponine nearly laughed, herself: Enjolras sitting across from Feuilly, who’d somehow found the compartment first, heads together and voices intense, and Combeferre next to Enjolras flipping through a book, quill pen at the ready. Courfeyrac burst in on this scene and threw himself across Enjolras and Combeferre’s laps. The book was lifted neatly out of the way before he could crush it. “Hello again,” he said. “Look who I brought.”

“It appears to be a stampede,” Combeferre noted. Members of the stampede took loud offense at the appellation while attempting to all shove themselves and their belongings through the door at once.

Progress into the compartment built for half their number was impeded by trunks getting stuck on doorframes and unintentional elbow jabs. Bossuet finally fell over something--though no one could actually figure out what it was that had tripped him. At least no one had to climb into the luggage rack this time. “No, sit,” Musichetta ordered Grantaire. “In a proper seat. Keep an eye on those two while I’m out.” And, ignoring Bossuet’s _Hey!_ , she turned to Combeferre. “Prefects’ compartment?”

Courfeyrac made an indignant noise as Combeferre stood to join her. “Come on, does anything _happen_ there?”

“My parents waiting for me to show up and say goodbye?”

Feuilly stood up too. “We have to put in a token appearance, at least.”

Courfeyrac harrumphed. “Fine,  _be_ all responsible.”

“Oh,” Prouvaire piped up, “before you go--congratulations on the success of your invention, ’Ferre.” He waved a familiar-looking length of parchment covered in scribbles, sketches, and scrawls. “I am going to treasure this forever.”

“We should get them framed.” Bahorel had unrolled and was admiring his own copy.

“But then you wouldn’t see Musichetta’s story game on the back!” Joly protested.

Musichetta gave a tragic sigh. “Might be better that way.”

“We could at least scrapbook the postcards,” Feuilly suggested, on his way out the door.

“Scrapbook?” Enjolras said.

Musichetta followed. “Or keep them in an album with the photos.”

Marius’ head jerked up as Combeferre left behind Musichetta, cutting off her words when he shut the door. “Oh, no,” Marius wailed. “Did you all _keep_ the ones Courf sent?”

Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Bossuet cackled in unison.

Éponine settled into her seat, feeling a smile stretch her face at the familiarity of the ongoing antics. Something about them reminded her of Gavroche. But mostly they made her feel like she was back at Hogwarts again; the new version of Hogwarts she’d somehow settled into last year, comfortable, populated by friends. Sixth year was looking up, she thought. At the very least it wouldn’t lack for entertainment.

When the last whistle blew there was a rush for the compartment windows. Bossuet, unexpectedly, made it there first, but was promptly squashed against the glass by everyone else. Courfeyrac climbed over him to stick his head and arm out the window. “There they are! Bye Mum! Bye Dad!”

Éponine heard a faint call that sounded like “Be nice to Marius!”

Courfeyrac gasped, wounded. “When am I otherwise?”

His affronted gesticulation cost him his spot at the window, as Joly took the opportunity to unseat him. “No,” she heard him calling to his own parents, “Bossuet’s fine, he’s just a little trapped, he says goodbye--”

Enjolras’ amused huff was nearly drowned out by Bahorel’s booming goodbyes to his mother. Éponine glanced over at him in surprise. She really should have gotten over Enjolras’ ability to express simple happiness by now. He just wasn’t very _demonstrative_ about it; it was easy to miss against the background of...well, most of his friends. Typically, he hadn’t joined them--he, Éponine, and Grantaire had been the only ones to stay put when the whistle blew--but was watching them, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The whistle blew a second time, and the quality of the train’s vibration changed beneath their feet; it shuddered a few times, lurched forward in increments, until it was moving steadily and beginning to pick up speed, and they were on their way back.

The entire pile of boys pressed up against the window nearly collapsed on top of Bossuet.

There was some shrieking, and some laughter, but Bossuet’s only reaction (muffled by someone’s jacket) was a thumbs up and a “Business as usual.”

A flicker of movement caught Éponine’s eye. She turned her head just in time to see Grantaire tucking something back into his pocket. It was a flask--old, used, dented, but not something he’d ever carried before. He didn’t notice her watching. He seemed to have chosen his moment when everyone in the compartment had been looking the other way. But he did, when he looked up, notice Enjolras, his eyes on Grantaire and his surprising smile turned to a frown.

Grantaire gave him a wry grin and a salute. Enjolras blinked an unsurprised blink, and turned away.

Éponine sighed. That was business as usual too, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as The Chapter Wherein Nothing Actually Happens. I'm not entirely happy with this, but I am tired of staring at it willing it to be better--plus, I am *seriously* behind on getting this story posted, I'm sorry about that! The next part probably won't be up for a bit, since it is currently finals week, but it is planned. If you've been waiting for the E/R part of the story, thanks for sticking around! I promise we're getting there. :)
> 
> ~ I appear to have accidentally decided to follow a Charles-Morgan-inspired title theme. Part one came from a quote of his that says "There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved," and I was going to use the second half of the quote for part two...but then I didn't like the way it sounded on its own. So this one's from "One cannot shut one's eyes to things not seen with eyes."  
> ~ [This](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vnkGoSAEzC4/VgWBhgEpJvI/AAAAAAAAHqw/1goC_-ICIao/s1600/uuf.png) is R's facecast wearing R's hat. And a rather R-like expression, I think.  
> ~ Some things, like computers, Enjolras does not understand because he's a wizard. Other things, like scrapbooking, he doesn't understand because he's Enjolras. *pats him on the head*  
> ~ Courfeyrac puts the embarrassing photos of his summer with Marius up on the wall in their dormitory. Marius is forbidden from complaining, because he has pressed flowers from Cosette's garden pinned to his headboard.


	2. Chapter 2 (Éponine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new year begins, certain things are overheard, and certain discoveries are made.

“You’re taking _Divination_?” Bahorel squinted at Musichetta incredulously. “For _NEWTs_?”

Musichetta shrugged, and helped herself to the remains of the breakfast sausage platter. The Slytherins on either side of Éponine’s group of friends cast her disgruntled glances; they hadn’t been expecting their table to be invaded in the first hour of the first day of school. Éponine hadn’t, either, but she was feeling pretty good about it. “I’m good at it,” Musichetta was saying. “So why not? Look, I do a kickass Mystical Farseeing Prophetess.” She demonstrated, draping her hair about her shoulders and lowering her lashes over a melodramatic dark-eyed stare. Éponine thought Joly might swoon.

“Your academic choices are sound and well-reasoned,” Bossuet told her solemnly.

Musichetta raised her goblet to him. “Thank you.”

“At least you don’t have Potions first thing in the morning.” Courfeyrac sighed at his schedule, as if by acting forlorn enough in its general direction he could rearrange the ink.

“Nope, I’ve got...nothing this morning. Ooh, History of Magic tomorrow!”

“See you there,” Feuilly said, reaching across the table for a high five. Combeferre joined in with a laugh.

Bossuet stared. “I may have to take back what I said about your academic choices.”

“ _Zitto_ ,” she told him, putting one arm around his waist. With the other she reached out to Enjolras, who also had _Hist. Mag._ inked into the Tuesday and Thursday morning blocks in his schedule. Feuilly had to nudge him into action before he reached out for the most tentative high five Éponine had ever seen.

Combeferre’s eyes crinkled in the way that meant laughter, and Courfeyrac pounded Enjolras on the back, cackling. Enjolras put up with this with surprising good grace. Perhaps he was used to it. He’d been friends with Courfeyrac for a few years, now.

Grantaire, Éponine noticed out of the corner of her eye, wore something resembling his usual smirk; but no teasing, no barb, was forthcoming. It must be one of his Days, she thought. If Grantaire couldn’t summon the energy to try and get Enjolras’ attention, you knew it was a Day. He’d had a lot of them during OWLs season in June. She wondered how long it would take Bossuet or Joly to notice this one, and if they’d get him back to his usual, impossible-to-shut-up self by dinnertime; nonstop doom and gloom, or even impenetrable literary references, were less uncomfortable from Grantaire than this kind of silence. At least the flask hadn’t made a reappearance yet. It was a little early in the day.

Across the table from Éponine, Prouvaire gave a melancholy sigh. “Why is Cosette on prefect duty?” he lamented, dropping his own schedule on the table and leaning against Combeferre in an attitude of despair. “My OWLs woes all fall on unsympathetic ears.”

“Our ears aren’t _unsympathetic_ ,” Courfeyrac assured him. “We’re just stuck halfway between panicking about our own woes and gloating that we no longer have to deal with yours!”

Bahorel cackled. “Wee babies.”

Prouvaire threw a breakfast sausage at him.

\---

Narrowly-averted food fight aside, the school year hit the ground running. By the end of the second day, Éponine was loaded down with syllabi which--though fewer in number than the year before--looked more intimidatingly incomprehensible than ever, not to mention homework assignments ( _already_ ), and Enjolras still expected everyone to gather for an activism meeting. She was beginning to wonder how the veela boy wasn’t failing out of school, or whether he ever slept.

She half expected to nap with her eyes open through the entire meeting, but the topic was actually pretty interesting: the black market for questionable Wolfsbane Potion, dubiously-sourced vampire repellents (for humans) and blood (for vampires), and potentially dangerous talismans against various creatures’ glamors. Interesting to everyone except Grantaire, of course. He had his head down on the table in front of him and was wheezing slightly in his sleep.

By the time she got to the weekend, the syllabi made marginally more sense and she could stay awake through a meeting, but the homework assignments had doubled. She spent most of the weekend in the library, sandwiched between Courfeyrac--who alternated between sighing unhappily at his enormous Transfiguration textbook and wheedling Combeferre for his notes--and Cosette--who was trying soothe Marius’ NEWT-related stress while chipping hopelessly away at her first load of OWLs coursework. Éponine was tempted to give her a sympathy pat on the shoulder. It struck her as a very Courfeyrac thing to do. But it wasn’t the sort of thing _she_ did, so she settled for the occasional commiserating smile, and the occasional glance over at Marius and his progressively more ink-speckled nose and hands.

It was a pleasant weekend, workload aside.

A definite upside to NEWTs was that, with fewer people from each House taking each class, they were all thrown together. Éponine and her Slytherin roommates had been ignoring each other in class (and outside it, mostly) for years. It was...fun, to have people around whom she actually spoke to.

The most fun she was having was in Defense Against the Dark Arts. They were practicing nonverbal spells, which at first consisted of standing in a line trying to silently cast Shield Charms at nothing. It wasn’t that Éponine was finding it easy; it was that her classmates made very entertaining faces in their struggles to spellcast without speaking. Joly probably took the cake. (Though there was the time Marius forgot to breathe while he concentrated and his face turned redder than a Quaffle.) Musichetta and Combeferre had remarkably similar expressions: unassailably calm, except for a slight frown marked between their eyebrows when they didn’t get the result they wanted. Courfeyrac gave up on focusing through stillness and attempted focusing through decisive arm movements, which had everyone around him edging out of elbow range. Feuilly was the only person who never seemed to get frustrated by repeated failure, and was the first to cast a successful shield. Enjolras’ expression of concentration, to no one’s surprise, looked lethal.

It took until halfway through September before everyone in the class could cast the charm without muttering “Protego” under their breath. Then they were all lined up to try, one by one, to cast nonverbal Stunning Spells at their Shielded professor. This took them through the end of the month. (Éponine blamed Combeferre, who took forever to summon up the will to attack someone a nonverbal spell needed.) Most people were simultaneously triumphant and terrified about attacking a professor to their face, except Grantaire, who looked bored, and Enjolras, who looked unhappy with the world.

What else was new.

\---

October came, and with it the beginning of Quidditch season. The weather had decided to swing wildly back and forth between perfect, crisp autumn days and dreary downpours, so on at least one night per week Cosette, Bahorel, and Prouvaire dragged themselves into the Great Hall an hour late for dinner, exhausted, and covered in mud. “The things athletes do for love of House,” Courfeyrac intoned the first time it happened, with a somber shake of his head.

“And thrill of flying,” Cosette added, with a dramatic toss of her soaked hair.

“Your girlfriend and your best friend are bad influences on each other,” Feuilly informed Marius. Marius blushed but was too busy ducking Bahorel’s arm, which was reaching to high-five said girlfriend, to respond.

Éponine couldn’t remember the last time she’d flown; she thought it might have been the first-year mandatory lessons. It wasn’t like her parents were ever going to spend money on brooms. She preferred having her feet on the ground, though--she’d take homework over _that_ much mud and rain any day.

And she certainly wasn’t short on homework.

“Why are we ever going to need to know the _twenty-page theory_ of how a matchstick becomes a rabbit?” Courfeyrac asked her during one long library slog, face planted in his Transfiguration textbook and half-buried in notes. She had no answer for him, and only turned to the next page--sixteen down, four to go. He whimpered.

“ _Y_ _ou’re_ pissy about the love potions unit?” she asked him during another, because Courfeyrac was always tragic about Potions but rarely pissy, and love potions seemed like the kind of thing to cheer him up. This led to a rant about consent and responsible teaching and the very _idea_ that he would ever _need_ a love potion, which led to getting kicked out of the library.

She wasn't sure how the History of Magic crew were surviving the sheer volume of reading suddenly dumped upon NEWT students, but Combeferre's outlines and Musichetta's flashcards were building up at an alarming rate. Only slightly more alarming was the rate of tearing and venom damage Joly's and Grantaire's robes saw in Herbology, or Bahorel's in Care of Magical Creatures.

The fifth years were struggling too; it had only been a year, but Éponine found herself wondering if the weight of OWLs had started telling this early when it had been her turn. She hardly saw Cosette anymore, between coursework and prefect duties and Quidditch. (She kind of...missed her. What would her parents say to that?) “Weren’t you complaining about that enormous Charms practical you have tomorrow?” she asked Prouvaire at a meeting, while he stress-braided her hair. Her own memories of that particular midterm were somewhat hellish. She wasn't looking forward to the next-level version of it, which was also tomorrow, and which she probably should be studying for.

“I am taking this time to think about anything that is not that, shut _up_ Bahorel,” Prouvaire replied. His cackling teammate received a kick in the shin. Éponine received an excuse to put off studying some more. “Cosette, come here, do you want to learn fishtail braids?”

Defense Against the Dark Arts, meanwhile, had progressed to the non-verbal dueling stage, and was thus more entertaining than ever. For one thing, it resulted in long minutes of silence while people stared at each other over their wands in varying states of concentration and terror. During the first lesson, no one even managed to cast an attack that didn’t fizzle out two centimeters past the end of their wand. For another, the class (divided into pairs) were all trying to Shield themselves from each others’ Jelly-Legs Jinxes--which, while less concussive than a Stunning Spell, were just inherently funnier. For yet another thing, Éponine’s partner was Courfeyrac, who agreed about the funniness of Jelly-Legs Jinxes and spent half their class time doing impressions of being struck with it. She, consequently, spent half their class time trying not to laugh.

There was also a decent amount of partner drama. The two Gryffindors in the room who weren’t Enjolras (and, judging by their habit of ignoring him, didn’t seem to be great friends with him) paired up immediately, but wound up arguing more than practicing, no matter how many times they were shushed. Grantaire and Joly’s corner of the room showed a similar lack of success, as Grantaire didn’t seem interested in trying to jinx Joly and Joly kept dissolving into giggles whenever he tried to jinx Grantaire. It really didn’t help that Grantaire kept making faces at him. Meanwhile, Enjolras and Combeferre came to the opposite kind of standstill. They were determined not to hurt each other, and they asked each other if they were ready before each attempt, and they read each other like memorized books--by the second week they were bouncing one another’s careful jinxes off one another’s solid Shield Charms every time. Their dueling was about as stilted as their conversing about the weather.

The beleaguered professor attempted partner switches, to limited effect. One of the vociferous Gryffindors got stuck with a Hufflepuff roommate of Courf and Marius’; the other got stuck with a Slytherin roommate of Éponine’s. Neither looked pleased. Éponine was partnered with Musichetta, but both of them were easily distracted by the spectacle of Courfeyrac trying to duel Marius two paces away. Grantaire was practicing against Combeferre. Enjolras was dueling Joly--or trying to.

“Joly, it’s a class exercise.” He lowered his wand, his sun-through-a-magnifying-glass focused expression melting into genuine concern. “You’re my friend. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“ _You can’t see your face_.”

So now Combeferre and Joly were paired off, with the result that Joly was the one making funny faces at his partner, and Enjolras was now partnered with Grantaire. Éponine knew she wasn’t the only one sneaking glances at their side of the room, watching for signs of entertainment or disaster.

“Care to start, _ange_?” was all Grantaire said in response to his reassignment. He sauntered up, wand held in something vaguely resembling a ready position. Enjolras did not bother to hide his resigned look.

“Ready?” he said, politely.

“If you ever are,” Grantaire drawled back.

“You’re not going to _goad_ me into jinxing you.”

That was the wrong thing to say to Grantaire, Éponine thought. Practically throwing the gauntlet straight at his face. Grantaire just shrugged. “You’re gonna jinx me. I goad by nature. Causality debatable.”

Enjolras just raised an unimpressed eyebrow, and asked “Ready?” again.

“Go right ahead.”

Enjolras did, on frighteningly perfect form as usual, and what happened next happened very quickly.

Grantaire’s Shield was characteristically lazy but surprisingly strong. The bigger surprise was that it was there and gone so quickly Éponine might have missed it if she’d blinked. As soon as Enjolras’ jinx had dissipated, Grantaire was sending one of his own speeding back across the room.

“ _Protego!_ ” Enjolras looked as startled by the incantation that burst out of him as he was by the unexpected counterattack.

Grantaire tsked. “No incantations allowed, _ange_ , that’s cheating.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows drew together in a gloriously terrifying way. Éponine and Musichetta looked at each other, lowered their own wands, and settled against the classroom wall to watch. “And you _didn’t_ just cheat?”

“Did I? I mean, do people usually wait their turn in a duel?” Grantaire tapped his wand against his chin thoughtfully. “Seems counterproductive to me.”

Enjolras’ mouth twitched. “If you insist.”

What looked like a Disarming Charm left his wand incantationless as he spoke--and Grantaire, quick as thought, sent it ricocheting around the room. Éponine ducked. Courfeyrac and Marius hit the floor beside her. “Mister Grantaire!” she heard their professor yelp, and looked up to see three wands leaping out of their owners’ hands and toward Enjolras. Grantaire took advantage of the distraction to cast the wordless Stunning Spell they’d spent weeks practicing. “ _Mister Grantaire!_ "

Enjolras’ Shield Charm was silent this time, as was his counterattack--a hex Éponine didn’t immediately recognize. She didn’t recognize what Grantaire cast in response, either, but it made both spells burst in a shower of sparks when they met in the middle.

The two of them stood on guard for a few silent seconds, the rest of the class having completely abandoned their assignments to spectate. Their professor took the opportunity to swoop in between them. But just before the lecture could begin, Éponine saw Enjolras’ ferocious expression shift into a smile.

Next to her, Musichetta cleared her throat under the sound of “Very impressive, both of you, and _never do this again_.” “Did Enjolras,” she whispered, “just _have fun_?”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Combeferre murmured back.

Joly raised his hand. “Well, I think there’s a _little_ need.”

“Is no one surprised about R?” Marius, whose eyes were the size of dinner plates, piped up. “He was fast!”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “He stuck with Dueling Club longer than the rest of us, by which I mean past the first meeting.” He patted Marius paternally on the shoulder. “Before your time, young Pontmercy.”

It must have been before Enjolras’ time, too, Éponine thought, because he was definitely surprised. When their professor released them with a final admonishment, he made a beeline for Grantaire. “You’ve done this before,” she heard him say amid the bustle of the class pouring out into the now-crowded hallway.

“Not nonverbal,” Grantaire replied. He fiddled with his flask, which Enjolras didn’t seem to notice. “Besides, so have you.”

Enjolras was not to be diverted. “Why have you never mentioned it?”

Éponine wondered if they talked to each other enough for not mentioning a hobby to really be a surprise. “I would’ve,” Grantaire teased, in a tone Éponine suspected wasn’t entirely joking, “if I’d known it’d get you this interested--”

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire shrugged “I quit.”

“Why?”

“Got bored.”

Éponine heard the change in Enjolras’ tone that meant he’d found a challenge. “Did that bore you?”

“Nah,” Grantaire said, in the same deceptively teasing tone as before. He unscrewed his flask and toasted Enjolras with it. “This time it held my attention.”

Well, that seemed promising. Maybe the two of them could find a way to maintain civility by throwing hexes at each other on a regular basis--it was as good a method as any. Then the only inconvenient drama to take care of among their friends would be Éponine’s lingering problem with the way Marius blushed, and she thought she was managing that surprisingly well on her own.

\---

It was too much to expect, of course.

Outside of the class periods spent throwing hexes at each other, Enjolras was still the most ragingly idealistic person Éponine had ever met while Grantaire was still determinedly not idealistic, kind of an asshole, and more interested in getting any of Enjolras’ attention than in the positivity of said attention. When he wasn’t huddling in the farthest corner of the room just looking wistful, that is. If it got any less subtle, Éponine thought, he might regress to literal pigtail-pulling. As things were, Enjolras’ increased interaction with Grantaire only seemed to make the usual apathy, and jibes about the newest starry-eyed second year ensnared by his veela charms, more frustrating to him.

The flask, which was becoming a steadily more noticeable feature, was not helping matters, though Éponine couldn’t pin down any definable thing about Grantaire that changed because of it. It was more that his extremes seemed intensified. From his boisterous joking to his more bitter rambles to his morose silences--all of it a shade _more_ , a notch more uncomfortable, than the person his friends were used to. And, though Éponine knew she was not the only one noticing the correlation, no one _said_ anything about it--at least, not where Éponine could hear it.

Until that time the week before Halloween, but that was an accident.

\---

The latest meeting--a planning session for the annual survey of campus non- and part-human populations--had ended, and everyone was on their way back to their dormitories except Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre (as usual). Éponine didn’t even get all the way down the corridor before realizing she’d left her quill. She did an immediate about-face, cursing under her breath. She didn’t have any spares.

The triumvirate paid her no mind as she slipped back into the room, and she spared them only the amount of attention it took to avoid their notice. She made her way over silently to the back corner, where her quill had fallen under the table. Grantaire’s red hat, she noticed, was lying on his chair. She pocketed it. (She wasn’t a Samaritan or anything, she’d trade a favor for it.) That was when she picked up on the content of conversation going on across the room--the triumvirate were discussing Grantaire.

“It’s definitely worse this year,” Courfeyrac was saying, “he didn’t carry some everywhere before. Professors have caught him out three times already, it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

“Where’s he even _getting_ it all?”

She could hear the shrug in Courfeyrac’s voice. “The usual means?” He sighed. “If he doesn’t tell us, I’m starting to suspect Joly’s going to conduct a full-dormitory search by hand.”

“Quite aside from being disruptive, it’s worrying.” That was Combeferre. “That he’s dealing with whatever personal problems he’s having like this, I mean. He made no mention of them over the summer... I’m afraid of his--typical behavior at meetings escalating.”

“Personal problems like what? Excessive self-inflicted cynicism?” Enjolras’ words bit, but he was pacing. His own brand of concern. “He’s been bringing _that_ to meetings since he joined. Just--just refusal to do anything about anything. I don’t even understand why he’s still _here_.”

And that was just more than Éponine could believe. Her hands went white-knuckled around her quill and Grantaire’s hat. There could not be multiple boys _that_ oblivious in this single circle of friends.

“I mean, all his friends are here, E,” Courfeyrac started, which was a good point, but not the whole story, as anyone with eyes ought to have known. What was it with these boys and not seeing things that were _right in front of their faces_ unless someone said something when it shouldn’t have to be said--

Éponine backed out from under the table and stood as noisily as she possibly could. “Yeah, that, and he’s in love with you. You _moron._ ”

She was out the door as soon as she’d had one second to appreciate the look on Enjolras’ face.

Grantaire stood frozen right outside.

Well, that would have been an uncomfortable conversation to walk in on, she supposed. She shoved Grantaire’s hat into his hands—he was looking a little shell-shocked, they could discuss favors later—and strode back off toward the stairs. After a few seconds she heard scrambling behind her, and Grantaire whipped around the corner to the sound of the classroom door opening. Both of them picked up their pace a little.

One and a half staircases later, Éponine started to wonder where her anger had come from, and where it had gone. She’d never been able to summon much anger about her own issues with obliviousness, since there wouldn’t have been any point, and she couldn’t find it again now. There wasn’t any reason to stay angry. She was dealing just fine. Better than she had any right to, since Courfeyrac had dragged her back to meetings in the spring; all _her_ friends were here, too.

Éponine didn’t look at Grantaire directly until they were belowground, where the path to the Slytherin dormitories split off from the path to the kitchens and Hufflepuff, but when she did she was surprised he’d made it down all those stairs. His gaze was far-off and unfocused. The feeling that this may not have been the wisest impulse she’d ever had intensified.

“He wasn’t figuring it out himself,” she said, abruptly. Then, “Sorry.”

He looked at her then, wild-eyed.

She turned and walked away, and did not hear receding footsteps behind her.

\---

Grantaire didn’t talk to Éponine all that much in the first place, but he spoke not a word to her for the next month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand she returns! I am so sorry for the wait, I somehow thought I'd get more done after finals ended, but neither graduation nor the gigantic stack of summer reading I've piled up have been conducive to that. I had chunks of this chapter already written, and the bits tying them together had to be dragged out of me. :/ Better late than never, I hope!
> 
> I don't have many notes on this chapter, just strong feelings on the various Amis' reactions to casting offensive spells vs. defensive spells, based on the Brick--i.e. canonically R is good at fighting (canne de combat, specifically) but it's all a game to him, while E is completely prepared to hurt people but abhors doing it to the point that he condemns himself to hell for the things he intends to do during the revolution, while Ferre would really rather accomplish a revolution of mindset without any violence at all. ...Bahorel in this 'verse probably enjoys the dueling unit tremendously.


	3. Chapter 3 (Enjolras)

Enjolras found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words as Éponine’s footsteps faded away down the corridor.

The silence was broken by a strained not-really-chuckle from Courfeyrac. “I suppose she’d recognize…”

Enjolras turned around. “She would?”

Courfeyrac stared. “Merlin’s beard, Enjolras—”

“It wouldn’t have been a difficult leap to make regardless of personal history,” Combeferre interrupted, cutting Courfeyrac off before there could be _more_ violations of privacy. Enjolras wheeled on him.

“You—it’s true? And you _knew_ about it?”

Combeferre was silent for an agonizingly long moment while he took off and polished his glasses. “I suspected something of the sort.”

“Since _when_?”

“Since maybe the second meeting he ever attended,” Courfeyrac supplied, still agitated. “Or, y’know, maybe before he started coming to meetings at all.” Combeferre gave him a _look_.

“And I didn’t…” Enjolras couldn’t remember struggling to speak, to organize thoughts into words, so much in his life. He’d tried _so hard_ to ensure that he’d never affect anyone. “And _nobody thought to mention_ …”

“It’s not your fault,” Combeferre told him soothingly, firmly; a step ahead of Enjolras’ own thoughts, as ever. “It has nothing to do with that. It’s to do with you being you and Grantaire being...Grantaire. You don’t think about those kinds of things. What would you even have done about it?”

Courfeyrac patted him on the shoulder, and Enjolras let out a long breath. If they’d both known, and were both sure that it wasn’t his fault, then it wasn’t. As the panic ebbed, he shoved away with it the small part of him that somehow wasn’t comforted by that fact.

\---

He did his best not to treat Grantaire any differently, but Combeferre was right, as usual: he had no idea what to do about this. He’d worked to never induce, and thus never have to deal with, anything more serious than superficial, easily ignored crushes. He couldn’t very well ignore _this_. That would be both cruel and cowardly, and also his brain seemed determined not to let him.

Halloween, for example. It was standard procedure for Enjolras to let himself be dragged to one of the after-hours parties, then ensconce himself in a corner where he could talk to his friends without shouting and Courfeyrac couldn’t force him to dance. It was also standard procedure for Grantaire to spend the entire party away from this corner, doing something ridiculous. So the number of times Grantaire’s antics at this year’s party drew Enjolras’ attention was truly unreasonable. He couldn’t help wondering whether Grantaire always got this drunk at parties. Was it new, like the omnipresent flask? Or had he just not noticed it before? Grantaire caught him looking, once, and toasted him from across the room, which was just typical; he waggled his eyebrows when he’d drained his drink and Enjolras had yet to sigh through his nose and look away. Which he would have, normally. Enjolras wondered how many times he’d responded to Grantaire that way in the past.

Then he wondered why it mattered. Mockery was mockery. He’d never had a problem dealing with it from people who were attracted to him.

(It would have been easier if it were just attraction. But really, Enjolras thought, did he and Grantaire know each other well enough for it to be much more?)

The same unreasonable pattern had been encroaching on their day-to-day interactions as well. Not that there were many of those, but Enjolras didn’t usually _notice_ that fact. Even earlier in the year when he’d started actively trying to engage Grantaire in conversation, he hadn't thought about it like that. He’d just known that he’d discovered something new about Grantaire amid all the apathy, some spark of drive and focus, and that if Grantaire was not in fact incapable of drive and focus then Enjolras had to bring it out. Surely it had better uses than classroom dueling.

Of course Grantaire had reacted by being more infuriating than ever. Proof that he _could_ be animated and decisive and put effort into things only made it sting more when he _wouldn’t_. Enjolras’ frustration had probably been what led to the conversation that led to the revelation that led to...his current mess. The one in which he and Grantaire went back to not interacting much but he became hyper-aware of how often Grantaire looked at him.

(The thing about coming from a family with veela in the bloodline was that one knew the looks and attention and attraction were never genuine; they were automatic. Others got used to it. Enjolras chafed at the coercive nature of it. But it had never gotten anyone else to stick around for two and a half years with no encouragement.)

They could still interact in Defense class, of course, in the form of throwing an growing repertoire of hexes and jinxes at each other. But Enjolras walked into the first lesson after Halloween to find that Grantaire had already claimed a slightly confused Joly as his partner. He went back to practicing his Knockback Jinx against Combeferre--whose telegraphing of his every move now felt very odd--and wondering what he was supposed to make of this.

It was ridiculous. He had more important things to think about.

\---

The annual survey of the campus’ part- and non-human populations was foremost of these important things. The goal was always to get it finished and start distributing information to the student body before the December crush of exams and essays began. While planning started earlier every year, nothing ever seemed to get less rushed. In the second week of November they were still scrambling to make sure they hadn’t left anyone out.

“House-elves are easy, I can get to them tonight,” Courfeyrac said. He scrawled a check mark onto Combeferre’s neat list. “You in, Thenardier? Cool!” Éponine looked more surprised to be directly engaged than anything, but she didn’t look unwilling, so Enjolras wasn’t going to worry about that. Not that he knew what to say to Éponine lately, anyway. “E and Ferre went to the centaurs last week, because they’re improbably punctual. Marius, any success with the merpeople?”

“I tried again yesterday,” Marius replied, slightly congested, “but it was chilly and raining, I don’t think they felt like surfacing.”

Joly pointed at his dorm-mate with his cane. “You had better have been drinking your Pepper-Up,” he warned. “I can _not_ catch the flu this close to the end of term.”

“You’re not catching the flu,” Bossuet and Musichetta said in unison.

“Try again when it’s drier, Marius,” Combeferre said, scanning the list. “See if you can’t get the giant squid to deliver a message. Now,” ignoring Marius’ sudden pallor, “you three--”

“We’ve got to all the House ghosts except Slytherin,” Musichetta rattled off, “and we’re working on as many others as we can--”

“But they do go _on_ ,” Bossuet interjected. “I think they don’t really have anyone else to tell all their centuries of anecdotes to, so every time they get an opportunity...”

“We’re getting better at it though!” Joly put in. “The last interview was only...forty minutes?”

“Excellent. And you three--”

“Can you give us until next meeting?” Cosette asked from the pile of drooping Gryffindor Quidditch players in the corner. “I've been meaning to drop in on my uncle every day, I promise, but practice has been going late every day this week…” She cut herself off with a yawn.

“As soon as the match is over and I sleep for twenty-four hours straight, we’ll trek out with Fauchelevent,” Bahorel promised. Enjolras had hopes for this part of the survey. This was the first year they’d had a direct link to the groundskeeper, who, though frail and rather crotchety, would be able to help with things like population counts for thestrals and bowtruckles and unicorns. And with not getting detention for going near the Forbidden Forest.

“Feuilly’s off working on his assignment now,” Enjolras took over, running a finger down the list. Feuilly’s openness about his vampire background right from the beginning of first year had slowly gained him the acquaintance of most of Hogwarts’ part-human students. Enjolras envied him that acquaintance a bit. It sometimes felt like he and Feuilly were the only ones on campus. But Feuilly’s gentle attempts to persuade others to come to meetings weren’t successful, and he naturally refused to give away their names or even their Houses. The delicate task of talking to them about the survey remained his alone. “And that leaves..."

“Our Hogsmeade contacts,” Combeferre finished.

Courfeyrac frowned. “Have they not owled us back yet?”

“Well, yes, to request that we talk in person.”

He groaned. “We just _did_ last weekend _._ We’re not gonna be back in town until December, legally, at least.”

Enjolras considered their options. If he could find the right passageway--which would probably necessitate talking to either Éponine or Grantaire, as if things weren’t awkward enough--he could get off-campus. If he stayed up through the night to finish the Transfiguration essay due Monday, the trip wouldn’t even put him too far behind schedule on anything. He’d just have to not get caught. Combeferre narrowed his eyes at him. “Enjolras, you are _not_ sneaking off by yourself.”  

“We need this by next week.”

“So this weekend, Courfeyrac and I or whoever’s free can go with you.” Combeferre looked around. Marius looked shaky. Éponine looked at her pile of homework. Musichetta looked at her boys, gave him a _maybe?_ gesture. He skipped over the Quidditch players. “All right, Courfeyrac and I, then.”

“We’re supposed to get everything else put together this weekend. More than one of us going would stall the whole process.” Enjolras tapped his fingers on the table in an impatient rhythm. “And everyone else is busy.”

An unexpected voice piped up from the back. “Everyone?”

Enjolras suddenly, unaccountably, could not think of a response.

Grantaire gave him one of his shit-eating grins. “Do I not count?”

 _Say something_. “Have you suddenly decided to take an interest?”

Grantaire clutched at his heart. “Such high standards you set for counting as a person, _ange_.”

“Don’t twist my words.” The last time he’d risen to Grantaire’s bait on a subject related to the worth of human life, Grantaire had hurt him merely by pressing the point, and that had been when he was definitely sober. More than half a year ago, now. Did Grantaire remember that? “Being interested in what we’re doing isn’t a high standard for counting as a participant, and you don’t even believe in our goals. Or anything else, as you make a point of emphasizing. Repeatedly.”

“You believe hard enough in enough things for a dozen men, _ange_. Whom could our resident avenging angel not move to action?”

Grantaire was always saying things like that. Now, though, Enjolras couldn’t be sure whether the object of mockery was himself or Grantaire.

“If you want to do _me_ a favor,” he said, veering away from the thought as quickly as he could, “go sleep off whatever’s in the flask this week _before_ you come talk to me about assigning duties.”

“I can do it.” Grantaire was suddenly much louder. “I know my way around better than you, for sure, and I wouldn’t even have to ‘sneak off alone’ because I actually know people who’d help me sneak, just for the hell of it. If that’s so important.” He spread his hands as though presenting evidence. _Ta-da._ “Just because I haven’t before, you think I couldn’t?”

“Can you?” It was out before he could think to stop it. Enjolras wanted to kick himself. From the look Bossuet was giving him over Grantaire’s head, he wasn’t the only one with that urge. Grantaire himself only set his mouth stubbornly, somehow as guilt-inducing as if he’d flinched, which was ridiculous. A month ago Enjolras probably would have gone right on to ask what proof Grantaire had ever given of being _capable_ \--Grantaire, who smothered what drive and focus and ability he had instead of ever taking a chance to use them. But then, Enjolras had never offered him a chance like that. And now he was asking for one. And the look in his eyes, like this was a duel, focused and not mocking and even a little angry…and genuine. For once.

“All right,” Enjolras said into the pause surrounding that swiftly derailed train of thought. “I suppose this is your chance to prove it.”

It was disconcerting, the way Grantaire lit up at that. Was this another thing Enjolras just hadn’t noticed before?

“I will,” Grantaire said. And that was the real question, the one Enjolras meant to ask--not _can_ but _will_.

With that look on Grantaire’s face, Enjolras, somewhat to his own surprise, believed him.

\---

Grantaire did not show up to the first meeting of the following week. Neither Joly nor Bossuet knew where he was. Enjolras would have thought it’d be easier to leave campus and return on a day when they didn’t have classes, but it wasn’t surprising that Grantaire would leave an assignment until the last minute. He hoped the half-hag Grantaire was supposed to meet wasn’t too disgruntled about the delay.

Then he didn’t show up to the second meeting either. Neither Joly nor Bossuet would meet Enjolras’ eyes.

\---

Some part of him knew that it wasn’t, in the grand scheme of things, that big a deal. Grantaire’s failure was a stumbling block, they had to rush to fill the gap when they found out he’d just _not done anything,_  but they did fill it. It only cost a sleepless night or two for him and Feuilly and some profuse apologies, and there was no point in dwelling on it any longer. The larger part of him was enraged, at Grantaire and especially at himself. Of all the obviously bad decisions to make. Of all the idiotic reasons to make it.

Grantaire didn’t come to meetings, or to half his classes, for days—until, Enjolras thought scathingly, Joly could assure him they’d cleaned up his mess—and Enjolras intended to have himself under control by then. To have dismissed the incident as the mistake it was and moved on. But seeing Grantaire—seeing his face, seeing him slink over to his accustomed place in the back of the room, seeing him sit there and smirk and tip back his flask and say nothing on-topic for the duration of the meeting—only infuriated him all over again. He caught Combeferre sending him concerned glances every few minutes. He took a few deep breaths, and fell back on his default mode of dealing with Grantaire, and pointedly ignored him.

\---

The final version of the survey, with every word approved by the people and creatures interviewed, was compiled on the twenty-ninth of November, and Enjolras stayed up until four in the morning finalizing it, checking every single copy for mistakes (even though Combeferre was the one to Geminio them, so they were of course flawless), and slipping them under professors’ doors.

Now, he told himself, he could finally stop thinking about it.

\---

Combeferre broached the subject during the last week before winter holidays. “If you need to talk to him about this, you’re running out of time.”

“I don’t need to talk about anything,” Enjolras said shortly.

“If he is a member of the group, we can’t ignore it when he does something wrong.”

“He’s been doing an excellent job of ignoring it.”

“Yes, and being stuck in a room with you two is becoming physically painful.” Combeferre paused. Enjolras could see him choosing and arranging his next words with care before they came out. “Would you have ignored it if it had happened last year?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Enjolras.” Combeferre’s brow creased. Enjolras kept his gaze trained on a point above Combeferre’s ear.

Words did not often fail Combeferre, but eventually he just sighed and dropped the subject.

\---

He was right, of course. He usually was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!
> 
> I...do not really have an excuse for this delay. Most of this has been written since August, but then I got a job and then the world caught fire and then I STILL couldn't figure out one crucial plot detail. I think I worked said detail out ok, even if I'm not entirely happy with the chapter as a whole (welcome to the land of run-on sentences), but I wanted to get this done. It's about time Enjolras said something.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day! :)


End file.
